Lord Bellefield safely accomplished his journey to Venice, reaching
that city of palaces without let or hindrance. Despite his imperturbable
assurance, a close observer might have discovered from external signs
that his lordship was ill at ease, and in no particular was it more
apparent than in the marked change in his manner towards General Grant
and his daughter. The cold nonchalance with which he formerly tolerated
the General’s stateliness, and the easy, almost impertinent confidence
with which he had been accustomed to prosecute his suit to Annie, had
given place to an affectation of studiously courteous deference when
he addressed the father, and to respectful yet tender devotion in his
intercourse with the daughter, which proved that to secure the good
opinion of the former, and, if possible, the affections of the latter,
had now become a matter of importance to him. With General Grant he
was in great measure successful, that gallant officer believing, in his
simplicity, that his intended son-in-law had at length finished sowing
his wild oats; a species of seed which, being universally acknowledged
to contain, besides every small vice extant, the germs of the seven
deadly sins, has this remarkable peculiarity, that being once sown,
it is popularly supposed to bring forth a plentiful crop of all the
domestic virtues. Deluded by this fallacy, the General fondly trusted
that the coming event of matrimony had cast its shadow before, and
extinguished all the wild-fire which had hitherto flung its baleful
glare over his Lordship’s comet-like course; or, to drop metaphor and
condescend to that much better thing, plain English, the gallant officer
taught himself to believe that Lord Bellefield had at length seen the
error of his ways and intended to marry and live virtuously ever after.
With the lady, however, his lordship did not succeed so easily; and
skilful tactician as he not unjustly considered himself, never had he
felt more completely bewildered or more thoroughly perplexed how to act.
Annie’s whole nature appeared to him so completely altered that he could
hardly recognise her as the same person. Instead of the simple, amiable,
child-like character which he had despised but fancied would do very
well for a wife, he now found a proud, capricious beauty, whose mood
seemed to vary between cold indifference and a teasing, sarcastic
humour, which he could neither fathom nor control. If he tried to
interest or amuse her, she listened with a careless, _distrait_ manner,
which proved his efforts to be completely unavailing; if he attempted
the tender or sentimental, she laughed at him, turning all he said into
ridicule by two or three words of quiet but bitter irony. She appeared
tacitly to acquiesce in their engagement, but any attempt to fix a time
for its fulfilment served only to estrange her still more. Does the
reader think this change unnatural? may he never witness the alteration
which a grief such as Annie’s makes, even in the gentlest natures--may
he never experience the bitterness of that nascent despair, which can
sour the sweetest temper and force cold looks and cutting words from
eyes accustomed to beam with tenderness, and lips from which accents of
affection alone were wont to flow!
One morning, rather more than a week after Lord Bellefield’s arrival, an
expedition was proposed to visit one of the architectural lions of the
picturesque old city, and as the General seemed inclined to accede to
the scheme, and Annie urged no objection, it was agreed that they should
go.
“I make one proviso,” observed Charles Leicester, “and that is, that you
come home in good time. I don’t wrant to frighten you, in fact there is
nothing to be frightened about, only I know that there has been for
some time past a spirit of disaffection abroad among the workmen at
the Arsenal, and if they should attempt to make a demonstration by
congregating in the squares and few open spaces in this amphibious city,
it might be disagreeable for you.”
“But is such an event at all probable?” inquired Laura.
“Why, yes,” was the reply; “I had a note this morning from
Arundel”--catching a reproachful look from his wife, Charley stopped in
momentary embarrassment, then continued--“a--that is, from a friend of
mine, telling me such a thing was possible--however, I’ll go with you
myself, and keep you in proper order.”
As Charley in his forgetfulness blundered out the name of Arundel, Laura
did not dare to look at Annie; when, however, she ventured a moment
afterwards to steal a glance towards her, her features wore the
cold, listless look which had now, alas! become habitual to them, and
exhibited no sign of emotion by which her friend could decide whether
she had remarked the name, or whether it had passed without striking her
ear. Almost immediately afterwards she rose, and saying she supposed she
had better get ready, quitted the room. Lord Belle-field had not been
present at this little scene. With faltering steps Annie sought her own
apartment, closed and locked the door; then, instead of preparing to
dress, flung herself into an easy-chair, and pressing her hands upon her
throbbing temples, tried to collect her thoughts. She had heard the name
only too clearly, and combining it with Walter’s tale of the ghost, had
guessed the truth. _He_ was then in Venice, and not only that, but he
had evidently established some communication with the Leicesters, and
must therefore be aware of the presence of her father and herself; nay,
by what she had gathered from Charles’s speech, he must be actually
engaged in watching over their safety; and as the idea struck her, a
soft, bright light came into her eyes, and a faint blush restored the
roses to her cheeks, so that any one who had seen her five minutes
before would scarcely have recognised her for the same person. “But with
what purpose could he be there? why, if the Leicesters knew it, had they
so studiously concealed it from her?--from _her!_” and as she repeated
the words the recollection of Walter’s speech, “He went away because he
loved you, and you did not love him,” flashed across her. “What if it
were true? what if he had really loved her, and had left them because
his feelings were becoming too strong for his control?” and then
a thousand remembered circumstances (trifling in themselves, but
confirmatory of that which she now almost believed to be the truth)
occurred to her. But if this were indeed the case--if, instead of
resigning his situation because, as her fears had urged, he had guessed
at the nature of her sentiments towards him, he had loved her, and his
honourable feelings had driven him into a self-imposed exile--what must
he not have suffered! and oh! knowing as much as he did of her feelings
towards Lord Bellefield, what must he not have thought of her, when he
learned that in less than four-and-twenty hours after his departure she
had renewed her engagement to a man he was aware she both disliked and
mistrusted! above all, what a false view must it have given him of her
feelings towards himself! Oh, how she hoped, how she prayed this blow
might have been spared him! Then the present, what did it mean? the
future, how would it turn out? On one point she was determined: only
let her ascertain beyond a doubt that Lewis loved her, and she would
die rather than marry Lord Bellefield. The evils that befall us in this
world are not without even their temporal benefit. Two years of hopeless
sorrow had given a species of desperate courage to a mind naturally
prone to a want of self-dependence. _Anything_ was preferable to the
anguish she had gone through; and Annie Grant’s decision now was very
different to the “lady’s yea” or nay she would have uttered ere the
storm of passion had swept over her maiden spirit.
The effect produced on Annie by the new light which had broken in upon
her did not immediately pass away, and although her remarks were chiefly
addressed to her cousin Charles, Lord Bellefield was equally surprised
and puzzled by the change in her manner. In order to reach the building
they were about to visit, they were forced to disembark from their
gondola, and after proceeding along a species of cloister, to cross one
of the foot-bridges which so constantly in Venice intersect the canals.
Under the shade of an arch of this cloister stood the tall figure of a
man; as the party approached he drew back further into the shadow, and,
himself unseen, observed them attentively as they passed. The excitement
of the morning had left its traces in the flushed cheek and sparkling
eye of Annie Grant. At the moment she quitted the boat, Charley
Leicester had made her laugh by some quaint remark on the personal
appearance of a fat little individual who was one of the gondoliers, but
whose figure by no means coincided with the romantic associations his
avocation recalled. As, leaning on Lord Bellefield’s arm, she passed the
arch behind which the stranger was concealed, her companion addressed to
her some observation which necessitated a reply. Turning to him with
the smile Leicester’s observation had provoked still upon her lips, the
light fell strongly on her features, revealing them fully to the eager
gaze of (for we intend no mystification as to his identity) Lewis
Arundel. He looked after them with straining eyeballs, till a corner of
the building hid them from his view. Then dark lines spread across his
forehead, the proud nostril arched, the stern mouth set, the flashing
eye grew cold and stony, and a spirit of evil seemed to take possession
of him.
“So,” he muttered, “it has come to this; with my own eyes have I beheld
her perfidy. It is well that it should be so, the cure will be the more
complete, and yet”--he pressed his hand to his throbbing brow--“yet
how beautiful she is! She is changed; her face has acquired expression,
soul, power, all it wanted to render it perfect, and--to madden me.”
He paused, then appearing to have collected strength, continued more
calmly, “Yes, I have seen it; she clung to his arm, she smiled on him,
she loves and will marry him. It is over; for me there must be no past;
I must sweep it from my memory. Happiness I can never know; as far as
the affections are concerned, the game of life is played. Well, be it
so, my art still is left me, and the dark, the unknown future.”
Again he paused. Ere the arrival of the party, the sight of which had so
deeply affected him, he had been sketching an antique gable opposite. He
resumed his work, and by a few hasty but graphic strokes transferred
to his sketch-book the object which had attracted him to the spot.
Replacing his drawing materials, he continued, “ ’Tis strange how the
sight of that man affected me: I fancied I had taught myself the evil
and folly of nourishing sentiments of hatred against him, and yet the
moment I beheld him, all the old feelings rushed back upon me with
redoubled vigour. I must avoid his presence, or my wise resolutions will
go for nothing.” He sighed deeply. “This, then, is all the fruit of two
years of mental discipline, to find, at the end of the time, that I love
her as deeply and hate him as bitterly as I did at the beginning. Oh, it
is humiliating thus to be the slave of passion!”
Communing with himself after this fashion, Lewis quitted the spot and
proceeded in the direction of his own lodgings. On reaching the square
of St. Mark he found it partially occupied by an excited crowd, composed
of the very lowest order of the people, its numbers being constantly
swelled by fresh parties pouring in from various parts of the city. It
instantly occurred to Lewis that in order to reach the Palazzo Grassini,
Leicester and his companions would be forced to cross the square, and
consequently obliged to make their way through the crowd; and a feeling
which he did not attempt to analyse, but which was, in truth, anxiety
for Annie’s safety, determined him to remain there till he had seen them
return. Accordingly, turning up his coat collar, and slouching his hat
over his eyes in order to conceal his features, he mingled with the
crowd. In the meantime the Grant party, ignorant of the difficulties
that awaited them, were quietly examining statues and criticising
pictures.
“Laura, you look tired, and Annie seems as if she were becoming somewhat
‘used-up,’” observed Leicester, glancing from his wife towards his
cousin. “No wonder either, for we’ve been on our feet for more than two
hours, and as for my share in the matter, I tell you plainly, if you
keep me here much longer, you’ll have to carry me home on your back,
Mrs. Leicester, for walk I won’t.”
Thus urged the ladies confessed their fatigue, and their willingness to
return; but there was still another gallery of paintings unseen, which
the General evidently wished to visit. He had commissioned an artist to
copy two or three of them, and he required Lord Bellefield’s opinion
as to the propriety of his choice. This occasioned a difficulty, which
Laura met by proposing the following scheme--viz., that she, Annie,
and Charley should leave the General and Lord Bellefield to their own
devices, and taking a gondola, row to a point at which they would be
within two minutes’ walk of St. Mark’s. Lord Bellefield made some slight
remonstrance, and it was clear he disapproved of the scheme, but the
General was peremptory, so he had no resource but to submit with the
best grace he was able.
“Famous things gondolas are, to be sure,” observed Charley, as, placing
a cushion beneath his head, he stretched himself at full length under
the awning; “they afford almost the only instance that has come under
my notice in which the intensely romantic and the very decidedly
comfortable go hand in hand--they cut out cabs, and beat ’busses
into fits. Now, we only want a little melody to make the thing
perfect--Laura, sing us a song!”
“Sing you asleep, you mean, you incorrigible----”
“There, that will do; don’t become vituperative, you termagant,”
interrupted her husband. “Annie, dear, gentle cousin Annie, warble forth
something romantic with your angel-voice, do, and I’ll say you’re----”
“What?” inquired Annie.
“A regular stunner!” was the reply.
“And if the epithet be at all appropriate, it clearly proves me
unqualified for the office,” returned Annie, smiling, “so you really
must hold me excused.”
“Then the long and short of the matter is that the duty devolves upon
me,” rejoined Charley, and slowly raising himself into a half sitting,
half kneeling attitude, he placed himself at his wife’s feet, after the
fashion of those very interesting cavaliers who do the romantic on the
covers of sentimental songs; then having played an inaudible prelude
upon a supposititious guitar, he placed one hand upon his heart, and
extending the other in a theatrical attitude towards the boatman,
begun--
“Gondolier, row--O!”
when, having extemporarily parodied the first verse of that popular
melody, he was beginning the second with--
“Ain’t this here go--
Glorious--oh--o-”
when the prow of the gondola struck against the steps where they were to
land with so sharp a jerk as to pitch the singer on his hands and knees,
and effectually check his vocalising. After discharging the boatman,
they proceeded a short distance along the bank of the canal, and then
turned down a narrow lane, or alley, leading to the square of St. Mark.
In this Leicester was annoyed to perceive knots of disreputable-looking
men talking rapidly, or hurrying along with eager gestures towards
the square. Finding, as they advanced, that the crowd became thicker,
Leicester paused, irresolute whether or not to proceed.
“Surely we had better turn back,” urged Laura. “I should not be afraid
if we were alone, for I know you could take care of me, but----,” and
she glanced towards Annie, who, although she said nothing, had turned
very pale, and clung with convulsive energy to her cousin’s arm. Charles
looked back, and to his utter dismay perceived that the crowd behind had
been increased by a fresh accession of numbers, and that their retreat
was effectually cut off.
“There is nothing remaining for us but to keep on,” he said; “the stream
of people appears, fortunately, to be going our way, and all we can do
is to go with it: I dare say they are too much engrossed by their own
affairs to trouble their heads about us. Whatever occurs, don’t let go
my arm, either of you; it is rather disagreeable, certainly, but there
is nothing to be really afraid of, and we shall reach home in five
minutes.”
Hoping these assertions, in regard to the truth of which he was himself
somewhat sceptical, might suffice to reassure his companions, Leicester
continued his course, occasionally annoyed by the pressure of the crowd,
but not otherwise molested till they reached the square of Saint Mark.
Here the sight that awaited them was by no means encouraging: the whole
space was filled with a dense crowd of the lowest rabble of Venice, who,
many of them the worse for liquor, appeared in a state of considerable
excitement, and filled the air with mingled shouts, cries, and curses.
To pass safely through such an assembly, with his attention divided
between his two charges, appeared next to impossible, and thoroughly
perplexed, Charles Leicester paused, unable to decide whether it were
better to advance or attempt to retrace their steps. As he thus
pondered a rush of people forced them forward, and they found themselves
completely hemmed in by the crowd, while from the pressure of those
around them Laura and Annie experienced the greatest difficulty in
retaining their grasp of Charley’s arm. Still no personal incivility
was offered them, and Leicester began to hope they might gradually make
their way across the square without actual danger, when a cry from Annie
convinced him of his error. The cause of her alarm was as follows:--
One of that industrious fraternity (some members of which are to be met
with in every large city) whose principles in regard to the rights of
property are reprehensibly lax, attracted by the sparkling of a valuable
brooch in Annie’s shawl, conceived the opportunity too good to be lost;
accordingly, pressing close to her, he made a snatch at the ornament,
seizing it so rudely as to tear open the shawl and partially drag it
from her shoulders. As, alarmed by her cry, Charles turned to discover
its cause, a tall figure sprang forward and wrested his spoil from
the robber, flinging him off at the same time with such force that he
staggered and fell; then addressing Leicester, the stranger said in a
deep, stern voice, each accent of which thrilled through Annie’s very
soul--
“Make for the church steps--think only of protecting Mrs. Leicester. I
will be answerable for this lady’s safety.”
Then Annie was conscious that her shawl was replaced and carefully
wrapped round her, and she felt herself half-led, half-carried forward
by one before whose resistless strength all obstacles seemed, as it
were, to melt away. How they passed through that yelling, maddened crowd
she never knew, but ere she had well recovered from her first alarm
at the ruffian’s attack, she found herself placed on the steps of St.
Mark’s Church, her back leaning against a column, and the tall, dark
figure of her preserver standing statue-like beside her, in such a
position as to screen her from the pressure of the crowd. Involuntarily
she glanced up at his features; hidden by the coat collar and slouched
hat, the only portion of his face that remained visible was the tip of a
black moustache, the proud, arched nostril, and the cold, stony gaze of
two fierce black eyes, fixed upon her as though they would pierce her
very soul. It was a look to haunt her to her dying day, and worse than
all, _she understood it!_ In a moment the idea flashed upon her. He
_had_ loved her! he knew she was about to marry his bitterest enemy, and
now he _hated_ her. Poor Annie, if mental agony could kill, that instant
she had died. Lewis, thou art bitterly avenged!